Dinner
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: After Sherlock's rescue of Irene Adler, he realized that his feelings for her were misplaced. Johnlock songfic based on Falling by The Civil Wars.


**Falling by The Civil Wars**

* * *

After rescuing Irene Adler, Sherlock tore through the streets, the woman close behind, as they fled to safety.

It wasn't something he was unfamiliar with, running for his life, yet it wasn't filled with the same intoxicating adrenaline rush that the detective usually experienced.

Perhaps that was because he was running with the wrong person.

It wasn't a lie that Sherlock was indeed attracted to the woman on some sort of level. Maybe it was love, maybe it was lust, but it was futile to pretend that there wasn't _something _there. However, his thoughts kept wandering to the missing presence; his eyes kept flickering to someone that wasn't there.

They continued running, twisting and turning through streets and alleyways until they arrived at the abandoned home Sherlock had procured.

Entering the somewhat dingy living room, Irene spun, looking at the house, and stopped once her eyes fell upon the detective. The familiar predatory gleam was there, but, now that the mystery was solved, Sherlock could now identify the hidden emotion.

While his feelings were unknown to both parties, hers were boldly broadcasted through her dilated pupils.

She moved forward, towards the still detective.

"About that dinner..." Irene murmured as she pulled the detective to her.

If it was anyone other than Irene, pressing their lips upon anyone, much less the stoic detective, as they stood frozen would've been awkward, uncomfortable, and desperate. She managed to pull it off, so much so that Sherlock wasn't still for long; his hands moved to rest on her hips and his mouth opened, deepening the kiss.

His eyes, however, didn't close, allowing him to see the rapturous expression on Irene's face though her eyes were shut and her mouth was occupied.

It should've been enjoyable, after all, wasn't this what most people would want from her? Wasn't it what Sherlock had wanted?

But Sherlock wasn't happy or sad. He was bored.

Predictably, it was Irene that pulled away, her eyes scrutinizing the detective.

For a second, he thought about hiding his boredom that bordered revulsion, but Sherlock realized that he didn't really care what she saw.

"Was it not enough?" Irene's voice was more seductive than normal, indicating that she hadn't noticed Sherlock's disinterest.

Her eyes, however, told a different story.

They flashed with something (not anger, not sadness, something else...) before her mask was up once again.

Irene smiled, whether it was fake or real was something the detective never figured out, and took his hand. She led him out of the room and into the bedroom, smirking.

"I really should be getting back to London." _I'd really rather be anywhere but here. _

"What about that dinner?" The seductive tone still lingered, though her eyes apathetically bore into his.

Sherlock had no answer; his thoughts, though somewhat preoccupied on the problem at hand, kept going back to John.

He really needed to go home.

Irene laughed, a short, harsh bark as she dropped his hand as though it was on fire and moved away.

"No one's ever refused me before." She murmured, staring at the ground somewhat angrily.

"There's a first time for everything." _Bit not good_, Sherlock could hear John telling him. This time, Sherlock didn't care what John thought.

It was, after all, because of the doctor that he couldn't accept her offer.

"Ah." Irene said, realization simultaneously dawning. "It's because of John, isn't it?"

"I don't know." Sherlock replied. It should've tasted like dishwater, admitting that he was ignorant of something, but, like most things the detective did because of John, it lacked the usual bitter aftertaste.

"I told him you were a couple."

"I know."

They were silent as emotions hidden and quelled arose in the detective, burning through his once-chaotic mind.

He felt repulsed beyond words at the thought of returning to Irene's arms. What had made him enter the poisonous embrace to begin with? Why had Sherlock succumbed to her?

His head whipped up. Was Irene going to divulge her assumption about the doctor?

Sherlock had already seen Moriarty threaten John's life once; he wasn't about to allow it to happen for a second time.

Irene shook her head. "I'd never say anything."

His eyes narrowed. Why should he trust her?

Irene's life was in his hands; her knowledge of this was as obvious as the sun on a clear day.

Sherlock allowed a moment of relief as one problem was eliminated.

What would John do if he found out, not only about the rescue, but about their kiss?

Sherlock could see the hurt and angry expression as though the doctor were standing in front of him. He hadn't hid his jealousy very well at Irene's flirting with the detective when she came to their flat, and the most she had done was peck him on the cheek.

If he reacted strongly to those actions, how would he handle this?

No. He wouldn't think about the what-ifs. It was illogical and impractical; nothing good would come out of it.

The detective was so absorbed by his returning apathy that he almost missed Irene's comment.

"You can trust me."

Sherlock scoffed; his mask was carefully in place once more.

"You can. It's as guaranteed as John's love for you. We both know that I don't take sides, but this is the one time I would break-"

She kept talking, but Sherlock couldn't hear her anymore.

_It's as guaranteed as John's love for you... _

One minute, Sherlock was encased in familiar stone apathy, the next minute he was drowning in feelings and sensations, his mind analyzing every moment, every word, every touch that ever involved John Watson.

What was going on?

Had he really missed something so obvious not just in himself, but in John too?

It was impossible for Sherlock to consider; he had never been so unobservant, yet, as his mind continued replaying memories of John, it suddenly didn't seem so inconceivable.

He was suddenly suffocating; he needed to be out of the house; he needed to be back at Baker Street.

Sherlock needed to be near John; he needed to be _with _his doctor.

Irene stopped talking and sighed.

The detective shoved his newfound realization to the back of his mind, along with all thoughts of John, as he made plans to ensure Irene's safety.

After all, Sherlock told her, he didn't want to have to rescue her every time something went wrong.

She replied with a smile that was considerably softer than anything one would expect from Irene.

They couldn't be lovers, but perhaps they could be friends.

* * *

Sherlock was back at the flat, sitting at the table, performing one of his experiments when he heard John slowly walk up the stairs.

The doctor entered the room (weary, worried, exasperated, (_Mycroft) _affectionate).

It had been a few months since the fiasco with the woman, yet Sherlock still wasn't used to having someone look at him with obvious love and adoration.

It was apparent that John was lying as he told Sherlock of the witness protection program in America, but the detective didn't mention it. He didn't want to ruin John's attempt to protect him.

Sherlock did, however, want her phone. Not for the reasons John believed, though, much to Sherlock's annoyance, sentiment was involved in his decision.

He wanted the phone as a keepsake of their night together; he wanted to possess something that reminded him of when his feelings for the doctor, and vise versa, were discovered.

He walked to the window, staring out though his mind flew back to that night.

He chuckled, flipping the phone in the air.

"The Woman. _The _Woman."


End file.
